Not Tell Anyone At All Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Building up in cornpone fountains:
Building up right here, where the fairies fountain:
And right here, where the rhymes crown themselves, speaking
For themselves,
As all of the night proceeds, speculating:
And maybe my loved ones won some prizes, but the night is
Another memorial, because it is always because,
With their knuckles in their mouth,
While all of their wives and pets sit speculating: and then
The city is hard up in its jazz of hyperborean lights right up
Against the hyperborean:
And there it was, while I was trying to strange myself:
And then it was alright while we were all trying to move
Away, upstream into the closets of suicide outside of guns
And the popcorns of your unicorns; and here it is, after hours,
And afternoon, while all of the elves have called their
Terrapins, and there they are, while the busses are all turning
Around: and there they are: while you are in his house of bodies
All alone- and I just wanted my fair bit of suicide, fueling up
The semis:
There down deep in the highest lowest aeries: and it wasn’t very good:
And there it was, just so floating on their tiny planet:
There it was on my cartoon of a planet with no one who could
Really change to love me with the soul star of a superhero sun coming
Up just to commit suicide: and
Then there was nothing that nothing was, and the lions came,
As the kittens growled, while the tourists curtailed but whom they loved
I could not tell anyone at all.